Nobody Cares About You in a Seedy Dance Club
by Jigglypuffer
Summary: Hermann begins to suspect that Newt has an ulterior motive for dragging him to "Da Wurld." sequel to "Everybody Always Lies on Those," pre series, film canon, Hermann/Newt


This was certainly _not_ "The Blur." Instead of the nice, fairly quiet club they usually frequented (that played charmingly retro tracks from their childhood), Newt had dragged them both off to some new place in a disgusting part of London. Newt had insisted that they try something new for their six-month dating anniversary, and Hermann caved (as usual) after at least a satisfying argument.

But this was too much by far. "Da Wurld," besides an atrocious name, was not at all nice like "The Blur." Instead of cozy booths, the only seats were either too tall and spindly for Hermann to sit at comfortably with his leg, or covered in cracked leather so old that it looked as if mice could make nests in the stuffing. The music was eclectic, if Hermann was kind, but confused and seemed to be from eight million places all at once. Hermann smirked at the weak attempt at a theme, but scowled when Newt pulled him further into the dark club.

"This is going to be so awesome!" Newt was wearing his usual clubbing gear: tight tee, tight pants, and hair so gelled it could cut you—Herman had the slices on his own face for confirmation. Hermann had drawn the line at getting any more rigged up than some band tee of Newt's that "Da Wurld" played often and his fanciest cane. He might very well go to the ends of the Earth for Newt, but dressing as a common punk was out of the question.

"I dare disagree." Hermann said lowly and Newt, blissfully engrossed in finding a seat, ignored his boyfriend. When he spotted a dusty booth, the tattooed biologist led the way and gently pushed Hermann down, narrowly avoiding the spilled alcohol of indeterminate origin on the seat. Hermann chuffed as Newt frantically pulled at a surly server to order drinks before sitting down himself across from Hermann.

"OK, as soon as we've got our drinks, we're on the dance floor." Newt had to practically shout over the obscenely loud music, but Hermann was rather inured to it. Spending any amount of time with Newt taught one to ignore constant sound. Hermann did prefer Newt's voice to the incessant bass in the club, however.

"I don't suppose you've thought of _how_ I'll dance." At their usual spots, Hermann always had room to awkwardly shuffle with Newt, and he'd grown bolder as Newt assured him how attractive he was each time they took to the floor. But "Da Wurld"'s floor was not only slippery—and was that vomit?—but so many people bumped about that Hermann feared for his hygiene as well as his balance. Newt grinned that teasingly luscious smile and hooked his fingers with Hermann's on the table.

"Leave that to me. Just stick close and you'll be fine."

After what seemed an awfully long time, their surly server returned with blindingly bright mixed drinks. Hermann knew not to let Newt order for him as a general rule, but tonight was all about concessions, after all. Downing his own electric blue drink, Newt grabbed Hermann's hand and pulled him up before the other man had a chance to taste the dark orange-red drink in front of him.

"It's all for the better, really." Hermann thought caustically as Newt pulled him along, pushing people out of the way until they were right in front of the d.j. A blasting South African rap song—"Dude, I _love_ this guy!"—began just as they positioned themselves together. Hermann glared at Newt and waited for his dear boyfriend to explain his plan. Newt's response was to smirk, grab Hermann's hips, and start slowly swaying completely out of rhythm with the song.

"We're not at all with the crowd, you doofus!" Hermann shouted (using Newt's favorite not-really insult) as Newt continued to turn them so that Hermann's cane didn't catch on anyone.

"Who gives a fuck?" Newt yelled back, beaming wider the closer the crown pushed them together.

Hermann felt himself flush. He was an awkward man; public displays of affection were out beyond hand-holding. Newt had been trying unsuccessfully since they'd met to get Hermann to kiss him in front of people. They had roaring fights about Hermann's "ass stick" and Newt's "complete lack of understanding" to the point that Hermann scowled if Newt even moved towards him in public. The hurt he saw in Newt's eyes each time only added to his frustration.

But this was different. The crowd wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to them. "Da Wurld's" clientele was coked out college students and tripping teenagers with fake I.D.s. No one had time to stare at the cripple as he danced out of step with his boyfriend.

It was nice to feel Newt pressed up against him, their sweat mingling and the short man's breath on his neck. It was similar to after their nightly escapades, exhausted and sated with emotion. Newt would tangle himself with Hermann's good leg and whisper the silliest—and sweetest—little things in the mathematician's ear, slurring finally into a contented sleep as Hermann carded his hand through Newt's hair. It was lovely, and even the noise and people couldn't stop the warmth in Hermann's chest.

Hermann couldn't start snogging Newt in public. He wasn't ready for that at all. But in the dark of a seedy dance club, pressed together as everyone else was, he could see himself doing more than holding hands.

"You planned this." Hermann bent down and shout-whispered in Newt's ear. Newt didn't reply but turned his head to nip at Hermann's lips. Hermann stopped dancing and Newt pulled back, doubt in his eyes.

Doubt that was quickly expelled as Hermann fully took Newt's face in one hand and enveloped Newt's lips with his own. Newt returned the gesture with his typical abandon. When they both needed air, Newt resumed his gentle grasp on Hermann's hips and lay his head on Hermann's shoulder.

The crowd continued to jump and sway, melding them into one.


End file.
